Meleg Vagy?
by Bitchin' Betty
Summary: A misunderstanding between two men on the eve of the race back to New York leaves Lapchick upset and Franco very confused. Set after the events of the Rally to Los Angeles. Warning for slashfic, and that some head-cannon and mental gymnastics went into writing this, as not a lot of information is given about Franco or Lapchick in-universe.


"_Ciao bella! Di nuovo per di più_?" Leaning against the frame of my door, I stopped. My wide ear-to-ear grin turned into a confused frown as I came eye to eye with an unmistakable and uncomfortable-looking Hungarian man. I blinked and squinted at him, making sure I wasn't seeing things. No, that was definitely Lapchick standing outside my door, wearing a brown corduroy jacket that was a few sizes too large in the shoulders and holding my wool coat.

"Pfft! Sorry friend, I thought you were a woman," I explained. As he gave me a puzzled look, I hurriedly corrected myself with a chuckle, realizing I had done a poor job of explaining myself. "No no! I had a lady visitor! I thought she may have returned, you see."

Lapchick seemed unperturbed but remained silent as ever and handed me my coat. I had forgotten completely that I had even given it to him. Until this moment in time, my coat had been as far from my mind as Lapchick himself had been. I took the woolen garment from him and hung it over my arm. "Thank you," I said, feeling the heavy material dampening my shirt sleeve.

Lapchick stood and watched me, and then handed me a long, thin bottle. I silently took it from him and held it up to inspect the label. _Sárgabarack Pálinka _was plastered in script across the front of the label, underneath which was a picture of apricots. It looked expensive. I turned the bottle around, and as I had expected, understood none of the words on the back of the bottle either. I assumed it was a Hungarian liquor. In the back of my mind, I remembered hearing about Hungarian palinka from a friend.

I looked from the bottle to Lapchick who was watching me hopefully. From how stylistic the bottle was and Lapchick's hopeful expression I assumed a drink like this was one to be shared. A thought formed in my mind that I might even be able to get him talking with a few drinks. This caught my interest, the prospect of getting to know someone as private and well respected in the racing world as Lapchick.

"Well, come on in," I said and stood aside, holding the door open for him. "Help me with your bottle."

With eager eyes and a grin, he walked through the door. As he passed me, I caught the scent of his cologne, a heady fougere scent that was strong, certainly not one I would ever wear, but not unpleasant. He paused shortly at the door to remove his shoes, and only untied the laces of one before stepping out of the second, I was disheartened to notice.

We both walked through to the main lounge area. Michael Bannon may not have splurged on our rooms, by means of apology for our vehicles being impounded, but he did have the sense to get separate rooms for the competitors. The mid century modern furnished lounge and kitchenette area were connected, as I imagined it was in Lapchick's own hotel room. The room was minimally furnished, with an amateur portrait painting of a desert sunrise hanging above a two seated table, not far from a jacquard three seated couch.

"Please, take a seat," I told Lapchick and indicated towards the couch as I went to the kitchenette with the alcohol. I had no clean glasses to drink from, so swiftly cleaned the ones I and my guest had been drinking out of earlier in the evening. She had left only ten minutes before Lapchick's unexpected arrival, but the fact that she was hired as a distraction, and that I was unsure whether her affections had anything to do with the impending Rally back to New York, had put a dampener on my passions.

I opened the bottle and breathed in the sweet smell of the alcohol, pouring a generous amount into each of the glasses. I probably – certainly – did not need more to drink, but I was not one to turn away a visitor, especially one with a gift, and the opportunity to learn more about this curious man was not one I wanted to turn down. I took a glass in each hand, and cautiously walked through into the lounge area, careful not to spill any of the precious alcohol.

I passed a glass to Lapchick and as he took it our fingers touched for a moment. His hand snapped back, causing a small amount of the drink to slosh over the side of the glass, and with pursed lips he fixed his eyes to the floor. Feeling confused by my guest's strange behavior, but deciding to give it no mind, I took a seat at the other end of the couch.

I watched Lapchick silently fidget and pick at a loose thread on the upholstery. Even when I had first met him I had noticed that he was removed from the rest of the competitors. He was different from everyone I knew, and this made him compelling. Lapchick stopped picking at the couch and started stared at his glass tight-lipped.

I rested my head back on the couch, looking across at the silent man. Intentionally, I cleared my throat, getting his attention. I caught his eye and warmly smiled at him.

"_Grazie_, my friend, for this gift," I offered, raising my glass in his direction. "_Cin cin_." I threw my head back and took in a mouthful of alcohol. As I swallowed, the liquid burnt its way down my throat, causing me to cough and instantly regret not taking a smaller sip.

I heard a small, amused snort come from the other end of the couch and looked over. My awkward guest now had a barely contained smile on his face. Face burning, I raised my eyebrows and shook my head. "It is nice, very different from what I was expecting," I said hoarsely, in an attempt to save my dignity.

Lapchick gave another small chuckle and raised his glass towards me, taking a hearty sip himself. He set the glass down, noticeably less affected by the heat of the alcohol than I had been. I imagined the drink probably reminded him of home, in the same was that a good Italian wine transported me back to my misspent youth in Naples.

I took some time to study the unusual man sitting at the other end of the couch from me. He must have got very cold earlier in the evening when he and his motorcycle had plummeted into the sea. Lapchick was slightly built and lean, with little fat on his bones, and while only a little shorter than myself likely was considerably lighter. At least his light physique was perfect for riding motorcycles fast.

Despite the heater churning out a considerable amount of heat, Lapchick was still dressed for the cold weather outside and apart from his shoes, had not removed a single item of clothing. He wore brown chinos that hit above the ankle when he stood, showing slightly too much of his argyle socks, and on his top half, a sweater underneath his corduroy jacket. I involuntarily cringed a little at the overall effect. It was not a very fashionable or flattering look for him. I personally thought he would look much better in a tailored blazer, in navy to match his blue eyes. He had the potential to be a very handsome looking man, I was sure, if he wore the right clothes. His current attire did him no favors on that front.

I wondered idly if back in Hungary, or wherever he was before the Gumball Rally, he had a woman waiting for him to come home. Or, perhaps even a man? I surveyed his appearance again, and then dismissed the thought. All of the gay men I had met in my life had impeccable taste in clothing, but then again, they had all been Italian, so that went without saying. Even many of the straight men in Italy had good fashion sense. I had no idea what the men wore in Hungary, especially as it was still a communist country. In fact, in thinking about it, I was not even sure it was legal to be a homosexual there.

"Do you have a woman?" I asked bluntly, my voice breaking the silence between us. I took another sip of my drink, feeling it creep down my throat, leaving a fiery trail.

I looked over at Lapchick, who shot me an vexed look. I did not think it was that obtrusive a question to ask, but perhaps it was to a man as reserved as Lapchick? Or perhaps in his culture it was considered rude to ask those things.

"I was wondering whether there was anyone waiting for you when we finish the Rally in New York. Or, back at home in Hungary," I clarified, hoping it would help him understand.

Obviously unsettled by my line of questioning, Lapchick shuffled a little in his seat, and frowned shaking his head sharply in answer to my question.

"Ah," I responded. I had a little more of my drink, taking in the smallest amount and tasting the subtle apricot flavor. I undid a couple of the buttons of my shirt and considered turning the heater down but refrained from doing so in case Lapchick was cold. I eyed his jacket. "You are warm, are you not?"

Lapchick paused, glass halfway to his lips, and a look of shock crossed his face.

Thinking he had misheard me, I continued. "I mean, if you are, you can take some of your clothes off. I really do not mind," I added casually, "I am warm myself."

To my surprise, all the color drained out of Lapchick's face as he gawped at me in wonderment. He began to nod slowly, and brought the glass to his lips, sinking the rest of his drink with watering eyes and then suddenly slamming his glass on the arm of the chair. I recoiled from the noise, but he appeared to not notice as he hurriedly left the couch and made his way out to the kitchen, leaving me sitting by myself, perplexed at his outburst.

"The, uh, bottle is over there," I said, pointing, but even as I finished saying it I could hear the slosh of the alcohol from the kitchen Then, I heard the quiet padding of feet as he made his way across the linoleum and back across the carpet.

Lapchick returned to the couch with a full glass, and sat down and stared intently at it, deep in thought. My guest was still speechless, as silent as he had ever been, and as at any other time I had seen him. He had a longstanding reputation within the racing world for being standoffish and silent, and the only time I had heard him say anything was his loud swearing as both he and his Kawasaki fell into the ocean. He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the rest of the competitors earlier on in the race as being someone both withdrawn and unhinged. After he had finished fine tuning his bike prior to the race, he had wandered around the workshop looking lost and wary, and clutching the key to his bike in his right hand as if he expected any one of us to attack him at any moment. The only time I had seen him let down his guard was earlier in the race, enthralled and grinning as he listened to the rumble of his bike.

Lapchick let out a shaky breath and removed his jacket, folding it in half it neatly and setting it on the floor at his feet. He took off his jersey, and that too he folded and placed on the floor, on top of his jacket. Underneath he was wearing another layer still, a dark grey, long sleeved undershirt. Pushing the sleeves up, he shook his wrists out, and then started to massage his left wrist in his right hand, wincing as he did so.

"Your wrist is sore?" I questioned. "That is no good." Lapchick nodded in agreement, so I cleared my throat and continued. "Well, do you need help? I'm very good at massage, I have been told." I finished my drink and put the glass down. Maybe it would help him relax. If anything, it would be a nice way to pay my guest back for his gift.

He shot me a doubtful look, so I continued. "Look." I shifted over on the couch to sit closer to him. "If you massage it yourself, it will not work as well. You have only two days to recover, assuming you are doing the race again," I rubbed my hands together to warm them up, despite already feeling warm enough from the alcohol. Our eyes met as I pushed up the sleeves of my own shirt. "Trust me, my friend, you want me to do this. It will help."

He regarded me through his blue eyes for what felt like a long time. I saw worry and suspicion pass through them as he held his wrist.

"You can drink your alcohol too. I will get you more, if it is sore. And," I added in a soft voice, "I will stop if it hurts you."

At this, Lapchick appeared to relax slightly, exhaling slightly, and nodded. I held out my hand, palm up. A moment later he offered me his left hand, cool and slightly callused at the base of his fingers.

I placed my other hand over the top of his. "I will do this as gently as I can," I promised.

Lapchick's hands were elegant, I observed, with long fingers and slightly knobbly knuckles. I noticed a couple of small grazes on his left hand, and ran my fingers over the surface, feeling the rough way the skin had scabbed up, curious about how they had formed but taking note to avoid these areas. I began to gently massage the fleshy mound at the base of his thumb, pressing with my own thumb.

With both of us sitting in silence, my thoughts drifted to the race. I did not have any more races coming up for another fortnight, so when I had been offered a job by Steve for the Gumball Rally I had jumped at the opportunity and taken it. Tomorrow was for debriefing and preparing for the race back to New York by arranging our vehicles, and then we would all begin the race the next day. That race itself would take over a day to complete, but when we got back to New York I doubted there would be any more Rallies for some time. Michael Bannon was already running a risk by having one Rally follow another, the authorities would be onto us, and not only that but the risk of injury to competitors would be even higher. I would have to think of some new ways to evade detection by the police. Along with that, I would either need to attempt to get Steve's Ferrari back from impoundment, or get a new one. My funds could certainly allow for a new one, but I felt sentimental about the one I had driven to Los Angeles. She was a good car.

Lapchick sighed softly, and turning my attention back to him I saw that he had rested his head on the couch, eyes closed. Lapchick, at least, did not seem concerned about the upcoming Rally back to New York. I intertwined my fingers with his, and lowered his hand to the couch. Then, I picked up his other hand, and began to massage that one.

I kneaded his hand a little with my fingers, switching the massage to his right hand. I wondered whether Michael would attempt to bribe the authorities to get our vehicles back, or at the very least, his own. I was fairly certain that they could not impound the vehicles forever, there would be a period of time they would have to be held on to, for sure, but after that the cars were ours again. The question was though, for how long would the cars be impounded?

Lapchick whimpered softly. I paused and looked up at him, eyes still closed but face slightly flushed. "Lapchick? Do you want me to stop?" I asked, holding his hand in mine."Does this hurt you?"

Lapchick opened his eyes, mouth closed tightly. With his left hand trembling the smallest amount, he picked up the glass of alcohol next to him and took a long draught of the palinka, draining it. He gave a shaky sigh, and then he set the glass down and shook his head for no, and closed his eyes again.

It must be hurting him, I thought, and frowned. It would be much better if he had just been honest with me about it causing him pain. He was a competitor, but injuring him – especially, as a motorcycle rider, his hands – just before the race back to New York seemed like cheating. I decided to continue on more gently. I focused my attention back on the palm of his hand, softly kneading with my thumbs.

"Ungh," he groaned, and twitched, and pulled his hand away, his partly open eyes watching me warily.

I found myself staring into his eyes, half lidded and bright blue. Despite what I had assumed was a noise of displeasure, he looked very relaxed, hypnotized almost.

Something, perhaps the alcohol, possessed me to reach out to the strange, unusual man next to me. So I did. I took my right hand,, the one on top of his, and brought it up to his face, cupping his cheek, feeling the stubble from thirty six hours of non stop racing with hardly a single break. I ran my thumb down along his cheekbone. Lapchick's eyes we no longer half open, they were now open wide with surprise, surveying me. Those eyes did not look real.

"You are handsome, you know?" I slurred. Holding his chin, I looked into his dazed eyes, at his features, his lips in a small, hopeful smile. I smiled a little too. "_Prestante._"

He stared at me, breathing heavily. Suddenly, unexpectedly, his mouth was pressed against mine in a soft kiss. His lips were slightly chapped and warm and the smell of his cologne filled my nostrils. A hand brushed through my hair and soft moan left his lips, reverberating through mine, igniting something in me. But when his tongue slipped between my lips it became too much, and I broke out of whatever trance I had been in and pushed him away roughly.

Confused and drunk, my head spun and my heart pounded as I stared at him. My hand shook as I reached up to touch my lips with my fingers. It had really happened, he had kissed me. I looked over to see the disheveled Lapchick watching me closely.

I scrambled away from him on the couch and tried to catch my breath. "No!" I yelped. "I am not inclined like that!"

Lapchick looked stunned, and opened his mouth to speak. As expected, no sound came out but nothing needed saying as the expression in his eyes went from bewilderment to bitterness. He threw his hands onto the couch in unspoken frustration and snatched his clothing from the floor as he got to his feet. I looked up at Lapchick to see him glaring at me, teeth gritted and teary eyed. He pointed angrily towards me, then himself, breathing hard, and then drew a forefinger and thumb across his mouth, left to right. I knew the unspoken meaning behind the gesture. Tell no-one.

I held his stare and nodded with my mouth open, watching his shoulders rise and fall in time with his rapid, ragged breaths. His expression of anger then faded to one of despondency. A pang of guilt and pity hit me in the stomach.

"Lapchick..." I had no idea what else to say.

I saw the pain in his blue eyes before he stormed out of my apartment, pausing to grab his shoes and slammed the door as he left. Too many muddled thoughts were running through my mind, and I held my head in my hands to try to silence them.

The room somehow seemed to be even quieter now, without Lapchick, as I sat alone. All I was left with was a half finished bottle of Hungarian palinka in my kitchenette, the lingering scent of Lapchick's cologne, and drunken denial and confusion at why my trousers now felt so uncomfortably tight.


End file.
